Heartbreaker
by iruusu
Summary: After becoming Sindria's magi, Judal is instructed to accompany Sinbad on official business to a foreign Kingdom. However, when the pair of them are forced to share a bedroom in a full inn, Judal almost wishes that he'd never accepted the title to begin with.


Judal had always longed to be Sinbad's magi. He could not remember a time when he didn't—perhaps when he was very small, when he hadn't known the man, but Judal's childhood had been a blur, anyways—even as he grew older. Judal had always latched onto the childish notion that he might one day be Sindria's magi, that he might one day be under Sinbad's rule, even when the whole world told him that it was impossible.

Now, for the first time, he was. It was unreal, it was like a fantasy, even if the terms were not exactly ideal. It wasn't as though the union had been particularly amicable. Sinbad did not really like Judal, as much as that broke the magi's heart. And as much as his heart ached for Sinbad, he was not going to confess to a man who'd never love him and make an even bigger fool of himself. All that Judal could hope was that, one day, he might earn Sinbad's respect, as a friend, for Sinbad would never see him as anything more.

Working at his side was not so bad, though. Sinbad was kind enough, and he was neither overly demanding nor cruel. He was a good king, just as Judal had always surmised, always working for the betterment of the people. Judal, though crippled by Al-Thamen's teachings, did his best to follow Sinbad's example and to do whatever he could to be of help. Sometimes, Judal would catch Sinbad smiling just faintly in his direction, with something like pride glistening in his golden eyes, and Judal would feel foolish hope fluttering in his stomach all over again.

It was almost painful, that a king and his magi were expected to work so closely together, for it brought Judal great pain: to look but never to touch, to see but never to feel. It was the worst possible sort of torture for Judal: the constant, useless pining. Worse still was when arrangements had been made for Sinbad and Judal to travel for a diplomatic purpose, as king and magi, to a foreign kingdom. Judal wished that it had been a dream.

The ride upon the magic carpet had been the worst of it; Sinbad and Judal perched together upon the precarious fabric, completely alone, and though Judal could feel his eyelids beginning to drift shut as his dimming magoi powered the vessel, he decided that he would endure it. He'd endure anything, if it meant this torturous journey would reach its end sooner rather than later.

"Are you feeling alright?" asked Sinbad when he caught Judal in a yawn, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut, only for a moment as the breath escaped through pink lips. Judal came back to an upright position as quickly as he could manage, and answered only by looking away.

"I'm fine," Judal huffed, tugging a hand through his wind-tossed hair, if only to keep himself awake. "Why wouldn't I be?"

After a moment of pensive observation, which Judal barely managed to endure, Sinbad said, "you seem tired."

"I am not," Judal insisted, despite feeling the beginnings of yet another yawn beginning to tug at the corners of his lips. "I'm wide awake."

Sinbad set a cool hand to the small of Judal's back, and Judal shot up at the feeling of it against his bare skin. "It's late," he said, gesturing around them to the darkening sky. "You're tired. There's no need to hurt yourself for the sake of your pride; you've proven yourself already."

"But—"

"We will get there tomorrow," said Sinbad, voice adamant and firm, in a way that did not intimidate Judal as much as it soothed him. "Let's retire for the night."

At last, Judal nodded with a sigh, allowing bleary scarlet eyes to finally slip shut, if only for a moment. "Yeah, whatever," he said. "I guess I could use a break."

They finally alighted at the sight of a village growing near on the horizon. Civilization in the rural plains of Parthevia was rustic at best, but it was Sinbad's homeland after all, and he had assured Judal that there was nothing to worry about. Still, defenseless with his drained magic reserves, Judal found himself drifting steadily nearer to Sinbad's side as they strolled through empty streets.

The inn that they stumbled upon was not ideal, in Judal's sense of the word. It seemed dingy, and small, and Judal deemed only the finest places of residence worthy of someone like himself. But it wasn't as though they had any other options, and Sinbad hardly seemed to hesitate as he led Judal in through the wooden door.

It was easy to forget that Sinbad was born a commoner, rather than as royalty. In him was the refined masculinity of a man born with a title—with a confident walk, and a look in golden eyes that was unconquered and proud. And yet, Sinbad had just led Judal into the slums without the slightest hesitation, without any indication of wariness, as though he were born into it. It took a moment for Judal to remind himself that he was.

Judal watched in silent awe as Sinbad spoke to the innkeeper, unable to really comprehend what was happening—Judal was fluent in many languages, but Parthevian was not one of them—but understanding that there was some sort of disagreement, albeit a civil one. In the end, he watched as Sinbad sighed in defeat, took the key in exchange for a sack of coins (he was too generous, Judal decided) and approached, almost embarrassed in the way that he averted his gaze.

"They have a room," said Sinbad.

Judal sighed, feeling relief wash over him.

"Great," he said, and then turned his eager gaze down to the single key dangling between Sinbad's fingers. "Where's mine?"

"You don't get one," said Sinbad. "They have a room."

The realization was a quick one, and Judal felt the flutter in his stomach before he even managed a quiet, "oh."

"Don't worry," Sinbad assured, "we can make do with this. I'm sure that there will be two beds."

Judal couldn't decide which was more painful: the thought of enduring a night of torturous sleep at Sinbad's side, or the thought that Sinbad might hate the very thought of it. "Yeah," said Judal, half to himself rather than to Sinbad. "I'm sure that there will be."

The room was small and quaint, not quite so rustic as Judal had initially envisioned, and seemed fairly clean. It was simple in design, lacking most furniture, but for the translucent curtains over the windows, allowing the last bit of light from the setting sun to streak across the hardwood.

In the room's center was a single bed. It had clean sheets and was set upon a wooden frame, with enough space and soft pillows to keep the both of them content.

Judal, however, was not.

"You said there would be two, idiot king," Judal muttered, reviving the eons-old nickname just for added effect. Sinbad gave him a helpless look.

"It was the only room," he insisted. "Would you rather to sleep outside?"

Judal grumbled, "no."

"Then we'll just have to work with it."

Judal only grunted to express his distaste, and, refusing to meet Sinbad's gaze, stormed into the washroom to the left, slamming the door promptly behind him. In truth, Judal had seemed furious and indignant at the turn of the day's events, but on the inside, he was melting. To lay at Sinbad's side would be either the world's greatest pleasure, or a fate worse than death. Judal could not begin to imagine it, and yet he already had. Sometimes, when they were working late, and Sinbad dozed quietly at his desk, Judal never had the heart to wake him, but occasionally contemplated leaving a single kiss to the cheek in his wake. He'd never gathered the courage. But now, when Sinbad's sleeping face would be mere inches from his own, how could Judal even hope to resist?

The heat burned brighter in Judal's flushed cheeks with each impending thought. It would be so embarrassing, for Sinbad to learn of Judal in such an intimate way, not even with touch, but with the mere closeness of sharing a bed with one another. Most relationships even took weeks to reach that stage. Sinbad and Judal were little less than enemies, and for anyone to know such a vulnerable aspect of him made Judal's stomach tighten.

At last, Judal sifted through the small bag he'd brought with him—Sinbad had insisted on packing light, as much as Judal would've liked to bring all of home's luxuries with him on all of his travels—but as it were, he'd only brought suitable garments for sleeping. This one was one of his favorites: a red silk robe, embroidered with patterns of gold reminiscent of the Kou Empire in its design, and one of the most modest things that Judal owned. He hadn't anticipated that Sinbad would actually see him in it, or else he might've brought something less embarrassing (Could it really be called that, if he were showing less skin than before?) but the very thought made his face burn.

Judal put it on anyways; whether due to his disgust at sleeping in dirty clothes, or the burning shame at the thought of sleeping in the nude.

When he came out from the washroom to find Sinbad facing away, sitting shirtless upon the bed, Judal promptly wished to die. He had heard from Kougyoku of the idiotic king's sleeping habits—which apparently included discarding nearly all of his clothing in a heap by the bed—but Judal had at least expected some decency, for once. It was almost too much, watching the way that the tanned skin rippled when he bent forward, when he stood up in a languid motion and then stretched, drawing distant shoulder blades together behind him. Judal tried to will away the sudden heat that made his stomach twinge.

Judal froze when Sinbad turned and set startling golden eyes upon him, guided them up and down his figure for almost uncomfortably too long, and then, the shadow of a smile. "You don't usually cover up."

Paralyzed by the sweetness with which he said it, Judal tugged his lips back into a sneer and tossed his day clothes in Sinbad's direction, just colliding with the man's broad, bare chest.

"Put a shirt on, dumbass."

Sinbad shook his head, and nudged the discarded garments to the side. "I get too hot at night. Sleeping with clothes on would be torture."

For you, or for me? Judal silently asked, but thought better on asking it aloud. "I get cold," he muttered. "Nights are freezing in the Kou Empire."

Sinbad nodded, trying to understand, and Judal hated him for the kindness in his eyes. Before he could say anything else, though, Judal went to the bed and snatched a single pillow, hugging it to his chest as he sank to his knees by the foot of the bed, on the floor. As much as he could not stand the thought of laying himself along the dirty floor, a fate even worse was the thought of laying himself by Sinbad's side. He couldn't do it. Judal would suffer the pain in his neck come tomorrow morning if it meant sparing himself of this embarrassment.

"What are you doing?" asked Sinbad after a while, and while Judal was afraid to look he could just feel Sinbad standing over him, watching, quietly. Judal tried to flatten himself to the hardwood.

"What does it look like, idiot? I'm going to sleep. You should sleep, too."

Judal promptly closed his eyes and turned away from the man, but his figure quickly went rigid when he felt Sinbad slip a hand behind his knees and another below his back, lifting Judal into his arms with ease. Judal gave a yelp of protest, or perhaps shock-an action that much resembled the look of an angry cat, but Sinbad's arms were so strong around him, so comforting and warm, and Judal found that it was easier to give in to the softness-to revel in it-rather than to fight it.

Sinbad laid him carefully on the bed, and Judal looked up at him, features twisted into a very forced scowl. "What the hell was that?"

"No magi of mine will sleep on the floor like a dog," said Sinbad, sparing a moment to retrieve the pillow from the floor, and Judal's frown went slack, eyes growing wider, just in disbelief.

And then, as if the words had never been spoken, Judal scoffed and sat upright, turning his head away. "I've slept on worse things than hardwood floors," he muttered under his breath, but it had been easily loud enough for Sinbad to hear, whether or not that was Judal's intention. Sinbad had a look in his eyes unlike Judal had ever seen before; it was not quite angry or pitiful, but rather concerned, protective, almost fiercely so.

Sinbad spoke again, firmly this time. "You will take the bed," he insisted. "If you are that uncomfortable, I can take the floor."

"Don't be stupid," said Judal, brows drawn together in a frown. "What kind of idiot would sleep naked on the floor?"

"This one, if that would make you happy," said Sinbad, sporting just the faintest hint of a smile, just enough to sway Judal's heart, and though he could already feel it breaking, he managed a soft sigh.

"We can share it," Judal said quietly, each word stinging more than the last. "If you think it will be easier that way."

Sinbad smiled, and when he set a hand upon Judal's shoulder it felt as though it were burning. "It's just for tonight. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried, idiot," Judal grumbled, an obvious lie, but the warmth in Sinbad's features didn't falter as he got up to use the washroom, an action that allowed Judal to sigh in momentary relief.

Judal fumbled with the tie at the end of his braid, and began to slowly smooth out the wavy strands of his hair. Judal always took to unraveling his braid at night, it felt far too heavy if he didn't, but now that Sinbad was here, he was beginning to regret the decision. He just hoped that the idiot wouldn't roll on it during the night.

"Your hair is so long," said Sinbad upon his return, watching in awe the way that Judal's hair came unbound, silken strands spilling easily over his shoulders. Judal felt himself tense, but tried not to show it.

"You didn't notice before?" Judal asked, casting a glance back over his shoulder.

"I mean, of course I noticed," he said, sounding rather sheepish. "You just never wear it down."

Judal snorted, then said, "a magi's braid is his pride, you know." It had been Al-Thamen's rhetoric, always cooed sweetly at him when he was a child, then like a threat as he grew older. Judal ran a trembling hand through it, just to soothe himself, and he could feel Sinbad's eyes on him, studying every move.

"Well," said Sinbad, slowly and carefully, as if fearing the words could shatter upon his lips. "I think it's pretty."

Pretty. The word itself was like a spear to Judal's heart, the last fatal blow. Sinbad, with that dopey look in those stunning pools of gold, must've doled out the same words to thousands of women across the nations. Judal knew this. He reminded himself of this, and yet, that simple word had easily melted any trace of a backbone left within him. Judal knew that he was a fool, to fall for pretty words and a charming face when nothing laid within, almost certainly, but Judal was happy, and that was what mattered most.

"Go to sleep, idiot," Judal managed, and in a flurry of motion, struggled under the covers, turning away and situating himself beneath the coarse sheets in an attempt that resembled hiding more than comfort. It was only for the night, he reminded himself. Tomorrow they would wake up and forget about this, and Sinbad would go back to regarding Judal with his regularly cold nonchalance, and, every once in awhile, with a painfully kind smile.

Judal heard the sheets rustling behind him as Sinbad did the same, heard him blow out the candle and felt how the man allowed himself a low sigh of relief as he sank into the comfort of the mattress. Judal still didn't know how he could find comfort in such a ratty place like this, with the scratchy sheets and hard floors, but, after a while, the shifting stopped, and Judal foolishly allowed himself to relax.

When he'd almost convinced himself that the night wouldn't be so terrible, Judal felt the shifting again, felt Sinbad's calloused fingers just carefully, just barely brush against his hair (he'd called it pretty, Judal reminded himself) and then, quietly, a whispered, "goodnight, Judal."

Judal, paralyzed, did not say anything, for he was afraid of what might come out if he tried.

Never had Sinbad spoken to him in words so tender, and Judal knew that Sinbad did not love him but his heart could not help trying to justify it, somehow. Sinbad had spoken his name so lovingly, so sweetly, whispered it carefully like delicate glass, and touched him. Such a kind touch Judal had never known, a simple tender caress, fingers barely touching but somehow more meaningful that way, and it was gentle and kind and loving, and Judal didn't know that he could take this much longer.

Against his better judgment, Judal turned over to face the man, and found, relieved, that he was not awake. "Sinbad?" Judal asked softly, a careful whisper, and when Sinbad did not respond Judal knew he was sleeping. This was different from all of those little moments he'd found Sinbad sleeping on the job, when he hadn't the heart to wake him nor the courage to kiss him goodnight. But now, their faces were close, close enough that Judal could extend a hand and slowly, gently trace a finger along the line of Sinbad's cheekbone-something he'd never done before. He found his finger travel gently to the man's strong jaw, and discovered that, even in the dark of night, Sinbad was still devastatingly handsome, and Judal knew now why he was known as the heartbreaker of the seven seas.

Feeling a swell of courage, Judal slowly, carefully, propped himself up onto his elbows, so that he could be just over Sinbad's sleeping features. Judal didn't notice the way Sinbad's mouth just subtly quirked when he leaned closer, nor the involuntary flutter of his eyelashes when Judal's hair fell against them, and then, when he was close enough, Judal pressed a gentle kiss to the temple of Sinbad's forehead.

"Goodnight, Sinbad."

The courage washed away in an instant, and Judal, feeling his face begin to heat up, sprang back and threw himself down onto the bed. Forced to hide his scarlet blush beneath the sheets, Judal clenched his eyes shut and willed himself to fall asleep.

* * *

Judal really did have the softest lips of any Sinbad had ever felt. Watching him quietly now that morning had broken, sunlight filtering in through the filmy curtains, Judal's lips were a splash of rose against his milky skin, and how soft they looked, even now, was mesmerizing. Sinbad wanted to kiss them, but, decided that he should at least wait until the poor boy was awake.

When Judal made that little sound, soft and half-asleep, Sinbad had to resist the urge to coo at him, and instead laid silently, watching as his shoulders stirred, as he came up onto one elbow and batted his long eyelashes, with a drawn-out sigh. He didn't quite seem to know that Sinbad was awake-but he hadn't then, either-and instead rolled to an upright position, knees brought up to his chest and delicate chin set atop them. Sinbad couldn't help but smile at him.

"Good morning, princess," Sinbad teased, and Judal first shot up in surprise, and then shot Sinbad with a glare. It almost pained Sinbad to ruin his moment of peace.

"Shut up, old man. I'm not one of your concubines."

Old man had really stung, more than Sinbad would've liked to admit (he was only twenty-nine, he reminded himself and the rest of the world) but he took it in stride, smiling pleasantly at Judal in such a way that made the magi's features soften. "No," said Sinbad, coming to sit upright. "You are far better."

Judal immediately looked down, at something Sinbad could not see, and Sinbad found it an ample opportunity to really look at him. Judal's slight figure was outlined perfectly in gold against the glow of the window's backdrop, illuminating even his smoky blush. His hair, always so perfect and immaculate (it was more than just pretty, now that Sinbad thought of it) was slightly disheveled, spilling in inky locks like silk over his milky white shoulders. The robe, which had covered Judal to the collar last night, had come undone as well, and slid to the side just so to expose the pale, pale shoulders beneath, and the beautiful long neck that was finally freed of its shackles.

"Don't talk to me like I'm one of your women," said Judal, and it would've been convincing had it not been for the crack of his voice. Sinbad smiled at him.

"I really liked that kiss," he said, and watched, amused as Judal's expression dropped.

"Having another one of those filthy dreams of yours?" Judal scoffed. "I'd expect nothing less from you."

"I didn't dream last night."

"Well," said Judal, hand gone back to rub at the back of his freed neck, "I didn't kiss you."

Sinbad only hummed in answer. "Tell me, then," he began, and tilted Judal's face by the jaw to meet his gaze. "Was it an angel who drew her finger down my jaw, and pressed her perfect lips to my forehead, and bid me goodnight? Or was it all just a dream?"

In Judal's eyes there was thinly veiled horror, and shame, and Sinbad almost regretted the way he'd spoken. "Why are you doing this?" Judal asked, lips trembling. "Just forget it, alright? Or punish me, I don't care. It was stupid. I shouldn't have done it."

"Do you really wish you hadn't?" asked Sinbad gently, and Judal bit down on his lip.

"No," said Judal, "because I know that I'll never get the chance to do it again."

The words made an ugly twinge in Sinbad's heart, as he extended a hand to wipe gently at the droplets gathering at the corners of Judal's eyes. "How do you know that?"

"Are you telling me that I'm wrong?" Judal asked softly, and Sinbad's lips tugged into a smile, fingers guided from Judal's face back to his beautiful, long hair, fingers playing through the precious strands just carefully, gently, having never had the heart to disgrace Judal's greatest pride.

"And if I am?"

"Prove it," Judal whispered, and when had their faces gotten so close? Sinbad could feel Judal's breath warm against his skin, could study every detail in those blood red eyes, magnified by traces left of tears, and just the softest, faintest sign of freckles against his cheeks from where the sun had marked him the day before.

Sinbad plunged, and kissed him.

Judal's little gasp of surprise had Sinbad near ready to melt, but the resistance in Judal's figure hardly lasted a moment, and he softened in Sinbad's hands, like clay. He was the perfect magi: passive and subordinate, yielding to every one of Sin's commands, and yet when Sinbad held his delicate figure up against his own he could not help but feel like this was more about Judal than it was himself, and Sinbad liked that. He'd shown his lust to hundreds of women across the years. To Judal, he felt something more.

Judal's shoulders rose and fell as Sinbad pulled away, out of breath, hair more disheveled than before with his robe near ready to slide off of his narrow frame. Had Sinbad been a weaker man, just the sight of those bleary, desperate eyes would've been enough to push him over the edge. Instead, he freed his hand from Judal's beloved hair and brought the sleeve of Judal's robe up to cover his bare shoulders.

"How was that for a real kiss?" asked Sinbad with mirth in his eyes, but in Judal's the tears were still there, and with them there was shock, and buried somewhere within them, innocent delight. "Are you alright?" he asked, when the tears did not fade.

"Do you mean it?" asked Judal quietly, practically falling into Sinbad's lap, limp and passive, like an early fawn, delicate and helpless. It was unlike the Judal that Sinbad had always known, who was fierce and determined and mean, but this was something else entirely, something new and something raw, and Sinbad couldn't say he'd ever seen anything more beautiful.

"Of course I mean it," he said, smoothing his fingers through the waves of Judal's tangled hair-he'd have to brush it again soon, after leaving it unbound all night-watching with a smile how Judal's eyes seemed to glow with delight.

Sinbad had expected another kiss, or perhaps for Judal to turn and pounce on him, as they still had the bed for the morning, but instead, Judal's arms went around Sinbad's neck and he pulled the man close, held him in his arms, as if clinging to this precious, fledgling bond that grew between them. "You don't know how long I've waited for this," Judal managed, just softly, and had he not been so close, Sinbad wouldn't have heard it.

All his life, Sinbad had dealt with partners who'd longed for his body, for his status, for his many, exotic talents. And here was Judal, who wanted nothing more than to lay in Sinbad's arms and to be held, like no one ever had before. The thought made Sinbad's chest ache, and his arms went around Judal's waist, holding him close as the last crystalline tears slid down pale cheeks.

"I think that I do," he couldn't help but chuckle, thinking back to the years and years he'd admired Judal, for his beauty and grace, for his ferocity and his bite, and now, for his tender, delicate heart.

"When we do reach the Kingdom," Judal began softly, pulling away just so that he could look into Sinbad's eyes, "will you forget about this?"

Sinbad was at a loss-how could he abandon Judal now, after knowing what he did, after feeling what he did? But the look in Judal's eyes was genuine, and sincere, and Sinbad couldn't find it in him to look away.

"When we reach the next Kingdom," began Sinbad slowly, and then leaned closer, so his lips were nearer to Judal's ear, "let's take a room with one bed."

Sinbad could just feel the heat as it rose to Judal's cheeks, could see it as he pulled away, but what caught him most was Judal's smile, brighter than it had ever been before.

"I would like that," said Judal, as he angled his head to press a single, chaste kiss against Sinbad's cheek.


End file.
